Mirror
by Cherry chain
Summary: "Do I regret it? That day, when I spilled the blood of family? We might have been able to have worked together, him and I, had I only taught him the truth of the world I see." As the war ends, Haytham thinks back to the day he took the life of his only son. -Oneshot and an epilogue-
1. Mirror

Evacuation Day, September 3rd, 1783

I had tensed when the cannonball slammed into the water, falling short of actually hurting anyone. A last show of contempt from the British before they withdraw. It would later be known as the last shot of the war.

I watched the ships leave, marking the end of a long bloody struggle that I had started.

No, that's wrong. Things went out of hand easily, even without my prodding. I had simply added fuel to the fire, a fire that had gone beyond my control. So much had gone wrong, but in the end…it's finally done.

"Do you regret killing him?"

I didn't turn to face him, didn't need to ask what he meant. He could sense my doubt, knew what must have been on my thoughts today of all days.

"He was my son, Charles."

"But do you regret it? Would you do it again?"

Would I? I'd like to say that, yes. I would.

I'd like to, but I can't.

Two years prior, September 16th, 1781

"I'm leaving. I have no desire to be here when the Assassin- your _son_- launches his attack. And you should accompany me."

Understandable. If Connor was coming here after us –and I have little doubt he was- someone was going to die tonight. It would be best to ensure that it was neither of us.

But I was tired of this game. Tired of playing Good and Evil, Templars and Assassins. I wanted it to end, one way or another.

"I think not, Charles. I think I shall stay and make my final stand. Perhaps you're right- perhaps I have not been the most effective Grand Master. Perhaps now is the time to put that right."

Part of me wanted so badly to leave with Charles. Staying put was sure to result in nothing but tragedy. But if I ran, I'd do little more than delay the inevitable. It was time to face the consequences of the actions that brought me here.

"You intend to face him? To fight him?" I could hear the disproval in Charles' voice.

I nodded.

He tried to talk me out of it and I felt grateful for the concern he showed for me, even though he has begun to doubt my leadership. He had been loyal to me and our cause from the very beginning. For that, I prayed for his safety, and gave him the amulet for safekeeping.

I have no intention of allowing it to fall into Connor's hands if he were to slay me.

The fact that I even thought of the possibility… I am a proud man, but I do not exaggerate when I claim myself a master of the sword. Whatever tutelage Connor received from that crippled old man pales in comparison to my own apprenticeship under my father and later, Reginald Birch. But I have seen Connor fight. Out of battle, he was such a gentle soul, but in battle he was a cornered feral dog; ruthless, relentless and unmercifully brutal, seemingly immune to pain. What he lacked in finesse and skill, he made up with by the sheer terror of having to face such a man in battle.

If I was twenty, maybe even ten years younger, it would not have mattered. But now, in my mid-fifties, I could not claim with certainty who was to emerge victorious.

xXxXxXx

It had almost not mattered. By some sheer stroke of good luck, I narrowly avoiding being crushed as the West Tower of Fort George was struck in the bombardment. If I had reacted any slower, Connor would have had his victory without ever having to face me.

Even with my age and my old wounds working against me, I managed to get out of the crumbling building alive. I could only hope that Charles had left safely already, taking the amulet with him. Another shot landed a dozen yards away from where I was, and one poor unlucky man was caught in it, screaming as he was thrown away by the blast.

I needed to get out of here. There was nothing noble about dying to a rogue cannonball, and would have made my staying here meaningless. Connor had gotten an entire navy firing on the fort. I had expected him personally, but obviously he would not be here if he was going to shell the entire goddamn place down-

I couldn't believe my eyes when I saw him. Trying to climb out of a cart of horse feed as a cannonball landed near him, tipping the entire cart over and sending him flying to land in a heap on the ground nearby. I thought that maybe I was imagining things but those robes were unmistakable. They were the White Robes of an Assassin, and Connor was the only one in the Colonies right now who wore them.

I was astounded by his bravery- and stupidity. Assuming that he had ordered, or at least knew about, the naval attack on Fort George, coming here wasn't the smartest thing. Rushing into the middle of a naval bombardment- did he think himself invincible? Immune to the cannonballs? Whatever he thought when he had come, it seemed that the fool had learned his folly.

I watched him stumble away, seeking safety. He was obviously hurt by the explosion, perhaps severely. Steeling myself, I drew my sword and quietly followed. Perhaps I can learn a bit more of his plan before I end him.

Even in his state, he quickly realized he was being tailed.

I withdrew myself behind the wall I was peering around as a pistol bullet cracked into the stone, sending shards of the wall flying. I quickly came out of my cover just long enough to whip out my own pistol, aim, and take a shot at the white blur that dived behind a stack of wooden boxes in the courtyard.

I had holstered my pistol, knowing that Connor won't give me the time to reload, and I won't him. I made my way across the courtyard, and he came out from behind his cover, obviously having thought the same thing. He had his tomahawk out in his right hand, the dagger of his hidden blade clutched in his left.

We circled each other warily. There were hints of injury in his movements, but he either hid it very well or was not as bad off as I had initially believed. My eyes flicked between his weapon choices, both of which lacked the range of my sword. If I could keep him at bay, I would have the upper hand, but I know that I would be sorely pressed if I allowed him to get close enough. He knew this as well.

"Where is Lee?" He asked, almost a snarl. If I had earlier likened him to a feral dog in battle, his voice now made him more akin to a hunting wolf. He had eyes only for his prey, and I was an obstacle in his way.

"Gone, I sent him away. I am your opponent now."

We crossed blades. He struck, fast and hard. I was forced to give him ground, to keep him at a distance where I would not lose the advantage of my range. But I could see the faults in his movements, where he allowed the pain of his injuries to slow him, to alter the course of his blades. I did not allow those mistakes to go unpunished.

He was the one to break off our first engagement, smacking my sword aside with his tomahawk before it could pierce his flesh. I could have avoided the crude block, followed up with an attack that would have ended him, but I allowed him to retreat and gather himself. I was still rightfully wary of him. However, as we traded more blows I saw that I had no need to be so cautious. He was weakening, and was more hurt than he was willing to show. His breathing was hard, labored. I almost regretted not facing my son on equal grounds, to see his full strength. Almost.

He paused in a lull in the battle, and looked like he was about to say something. The fool. Perhaps he still thought that there could still be some kind of reconciliation between us. I thought the same once, but I understand now that neither of us will budge on our stances.

"Please, we can still-"

I didn't allow him to finish his words. I charged in at him, sword bared. He barely managed to deflect the attack, and I took the opportunity to press in with my sword, forcing his tomahawk uselessly against his chest. I followed in after my attack, driving my elbow up into his chin before withdrawing my sword from the tangle, knocking aside the dagger he was trying to bring in on my right side. If the cursed thing wasn't attached to his bracer, he would have lost the weapon then and there.

Maybe I was reluctant to kill him. No one can fault me for such feelings if I had them. He was my son after all, and no father should take the killing of their child lightly, no matter how necessary. But if I was reluctant, such reluctance did not stay my blade.

I saw myself in him, you know. Ever since that day I hid in the rafters of the church, when I first saw Connor in action. I saw what I would have been if the treachery of Reginald Birch had not drawn me into the Templar Order. He was the mirror image of me. While I was born an Assassin and raised a Templar, he was born to a Templar and raised an Assassin. I wondered what the differences were, curious to see the man who stood at the end of the path I did not follow.

His next clumsy attack allowed me to quicken that end. As another cannonball landed dangerously close to us, I was reminded that I had no time to waste. I knew it was time to finish this.

"I tried, you know." I told him as I knocked his Tomahawk out of his hands, then followed up by driving the pommel of my sword into his gut. He crumpled, but I saw that it was a feign. I pretended to fall for it, as if I had lowered my guard. "I tried to open your eyes. I'm sorry it has to end like this."

The tricky part about dealing with these Assassins was that they were almost never unarmed. You take their sword, their dagger, their pistol, and they'll always still have those goddamn hidden blades.

"I'm sorry too." Connor was used to having the advantage of surprise with his hidden blade- even those who knew of the blade often make the mistake of forgetting about them in the heat of battle. But I have killed many Assassins before. I have made that mistake before. The injury that resulted ensured that I never did again.

So when the blade came out with its characteristic _chink!_ I was ready for it. I allowed him to think that I was not expecting the attack, giving him an opening that he could exploit with the blade. He took it, and I intercepted the attack with my own, seemingly empty, left hand.

The blade I had stolen from an Assassin so many years ago once again drank Assassin blood as it pierced Connor's wrist. He himself made the fatal mistake I did not, and I could see it in the surprise and despair in his eyes that he realized this. His blade grazed muscle across the front of my shoulder, but it was an injury I gladly took in exchange for his. Connor screamed hoarsely, and I took the opportunity to grab his other wrist, dropping my sword. I had dealt with these pivot Hidden Blades before as well, and with pressure at the right spot, I broke the dagger off its mechanism.

He put effort into keep his grip, but the pain in his right wrist impaled on my blade on top of his accumulating fatigue and previous injuries sapped his strength. I pried the dagger from him and, keeping my own hidden blade still extended and still in his flesh, I forced him to his knees. He was weaponless now, completely helpless. I had won.

"I hope you have some better last words this time, son."

He glared at me with those intense eyes, same as his mother's. I saw too, the lies and hate that clouded his vision. If I had known of his existence earlier, I might have saved him. But he was beyond me and my words now, stubborn to a fault and unyielding in his beliefs. I had admired him for his conviction, at least, even if they are wrong.

"You're wrong, father. There exists a future where all can be free, and I hope that you will see it one day. The Assassins will rise and rise again, no matter how many times you try to rid the world of us. Even if those who follow the Creed are gone, the Creed still remains. That's because it is true."

He was ready; I could see it in his eyes. He did not approve of this outcome, and I could see that there was much he wanted to do still in this world. But he refused to face death with anything other than the greatest of courage. I was proud of him.

I drove the dagger into his heart. I felt his body jerk as I withdrew both my blades, blood blooming on those white robes. He shuddered, and would have collapsed had I not caught him. As I held the dying body of my son in my arms, I could feel the life leave him, his tense muscles relaxing, and the last breath leaving his lungs. I was truly sorry that it had come to this.

"Nothing is true, my son."

September 3rd, 1783

"No, I don't regret it Charles. He had to die." I finally answered after a long pause. "There was a time when I had thought perhaps I could show him the truth. My only regret is that I was too late in trying."

* * *

AN: I saw a piece of fanart on DA showing Haytham holding a dying Connor in his arms. The artist actually intended it to be more something like Connor having succumbed to his wounds and Haytham taking care of him, but I initially thought it was that Haytham had killed him.

So I wrote this.

Uhh, Happy Birthday Haytham. You get to live. I guess. It's also my birthday, so this is kinda like a gift to myself?

Beta Read by HeartOfPaper


	2. Epilogue

I stood in shock in the empty courtyard. The _empty_ courtyard.

I came back to the Fort in the morning to find it in shambles. The naval bombardment had lasted several hours, and then inexplicably, the ships left. It left many confused, having expected the attack to have been followed up. But I understood of course. The attack had simply been to provide cover for Connor, so that he could slip in unseen.

I had fled soon after killing Connor, though I had allowed myself some measure of foolish sentiment, staying there with my son in my embrace until life had fled him entirely.

Even I should be allowed to mourn the death of my child.

However, I had no desire to remain long in this death trap, where I was still very much in danger. Injured, –for Connor had not left me unscathed, despite how one-sided our battle was- I managed to leave the Fort safely, abandoning my son's body.

Now I regret it. As I picked my way through the debris where we had fought that night, there was no sign of him, except the hidden dagger I had killed him with, lying by a dried pool of blood. Connor's blood- mine and Ziio's blood.

He was my enemy, would have brought our world to ruin through his foolish ideals if I had not stopped him. But that didn't change the fact that he was my son, a brave and capable warrior, who endured so much for his beliefs. I respected him, and was proud in a way. If our paths had not crossed the way it had, if I had protected him from the nonsense lies of the Brotherhood, he could have stood by my side.

To this day I never knew what had happened to him. Likely the soldiers had found his body within the military fort and without a uniform. An unknown native man, who was more likely a foe than friend, as the Mohawks were no friends of the British. As they mourned and buried their own dead, they had probably thrown Connor in one of the honourless graves meant for enemy soldiers.

One of my greatest regrets to this day is that I could not have given him a proper burial. He deserved that much at least.

xXxXxXx

The day was bright, sunny. It didn't fit the dampened mood of the crowd that gathered on the hill overlooking the cliff, circling a freshly dug grave. Achilles stood silent as the inhabitants of the homestead left one by one, offering him their condolences. They all grieved deeply, each having lost the man who had given them a second chance at life. Finally, all that was left was the Mentor himself and the five Brothers and a Sister Connor had recruited.

"Thank you, for bringing him home to me." Achilles spoke softly to the men and woman who stood around the grave- Connor's grave.

"It's not a problem, Mentor." Stephane replied in a subdued voice. He had been the one who volunteered to enter Fort George that night when Connor had not returned to their agreed meeting place on time. He was the one who had found their dead Brother. He had refused to leave Connor behind, despite the dangers and difficulties of retrieving the body.

None of them had expected the tragedy. Each of the Brotherhood had a task that night, whether it was to steal Templar papers or assassinate certain captains. They had all been successful, and though Connor had the most dangerous task of them all, no one had expected him of all people to to fall in battle.

"I had always warned him, how it might turn out. That what he fought so hard for might have been in vain." Achilles spoke sadly.

"But it wasn't in vain." Deborah pointed out, opening her arms to gesture to the area around her, the Homestead. "Just look at the life he has brought to this land, the opportunities and freedom he offered so many."

A rare smile came to Achilles's lips. These people- they believed in Connor.

"Indeed he did." His vision, his quest- it had not ended. Achilles had once thought that the dreams of the Brotherhood were simple fantasies, impossible in the harsh realities of the world. But Connor had challenged him in that belief over and over again, insisting that the world can change, if only people like Achilles did not give up. Maybe Connor wasn't wrong- was it really so bad to believe that they had the power to change the world into a better one?

Achilles sighed as he carefully bent down over the open grave and from his coat withdrew a long, pure-white feather. Over the coffin covered with the flag of the town Connor had brought to life, over the flowers offered by the people who loved him, Achilles placed the feather.

"You have made me proud, my boy."

_Here lies_

_Connor_

_1756-1781_

_Who resurrected a Brotherhood_

_And taught them to believe_

* * *

AN: I was originally thinking about writing something like this as a followup, but I didn't have any solid ideas of what to do so I dropped it. But then a reviewer asked me what Haytham would have done with the body, so I went back to my original idea and solidified it.

I wanted Connor to be buried on the Homestead, but I couldn't justify Haytham taking him there. But then I remembered that the recruits were there the night of the attack and things fell into place.

I thought for a bit what to put on his gravestone. I didn't want to put him down as Connor Kenway, because I don't think he (and more importantly, the people who engraved it) ever considered himself a Kenway. I also considered putting his native name there, but I don't think the Mohawks had a written language, so Ratonhnhake:ton doesn't really exist as a written name. So he's just simply Connor.

As the first "chapter" was a mirror image of the Connor-Haytham fight, this "epilogue" is more of a mirror image of Achille's funeral.


End file.
